


Like Honeyed Wine

by Arya_Greenleaf



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Bisexual Steve Rogers, Casual Sex, Drinking, Drunken Kissing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, References to Illness, Slow Build, Tags May Change, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28586115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: After Sarah's funeral, Steve feels listless. Without schedule to keep for her care, he frankly doesn't know what to do. He doesn't have a purpose anymore. Feelings jumbled, he struggles to act appropriately in need of consolation. Strangely, he finds he feels... free?Trying to return toliving, Steve picks up the scattered pieces of his life before his mother fell ill -- a job, the prospect of school: all of it seems to immediately need his attention. While he sorts it all out, a rather strange new acquaintance sweeps him off his feet.
Relationships: Loki/Steve Rogers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back, back again? AG's back, tell a friend.
> 
> I've been poking at this for a handful of weeks now and I want to get some of it up! So I might need to adjust some tags but if there isn't a tag that applies then I'll certainly put a note in the applicable chapter.
> 
> Spoilers for a book published in 1936, I guess. It's been a while, please forgive me while I find this voice again.

The bartender doesn’t object to Steve’s presence. He looks young because he’s scrawny and babyfaced and there’s oldtimers in the back who grumbled when Steve sat at the counter and a pint of beer and a little, dusty glass of whiskey made their way in front of him without even being asked; but, Steve thinks that he would have been served even if he wasn’t of age. He’s been polishing shoes outside the bar since he could carry a crate to put a foot up on and selling papers on the corner here for longer. They know him.

And they know what he’s been through.

Steve needs the drink.

He’s still in his nice slacks and a new shirt with so much starch in the collar that he thinks it won’t ever crease. He’d sat at home in the apartment he’d shared with his mother for a few hours after Bucky dropped him off, listening to the silence. It's a funny reason for a brand new shirt, he thought, to spend the day sitting beside someone who can't appreciate it and wrap up the afternoon by putting them in the ground.

Before, he’d have been coming home to a record playing and the tangy smell of soda bread in the oven and the quiet _shwick-slip_ of Sarah Rogers’ stockinged feet on the linoleum.

Now, it’s just an echo chamber for Steve’s own reedy breathing and the blood rushing in his ears and he can’t stand to be there. So, he’d gone out for a walk and wound up at the hole-in-the-wall bar hidden several blocks away, down the stairs below the hairdresser’s in the side alley. Praise the end of prohibition, et cetera, et cetera.

Steve downs the whiskey in one fiery, cheap swallow. It makes him feel like his lips are going to shrivel back away from his teeth and his ears ring with the moonshine-strength of the booze. He waves off another and nurses the pint he’s been given instead, happy to have something of a goal, even if it is at the bottom of the glass.

The pint is more than enough to make him feel soft and warm, like he’s floating atop the stiff foam that sticks to the sand at Coney Island when the water is rough. Steve knows he’s a lightweight and he hasn’t had anything to eat all day -- he’d felt ill every time he’d gotten near any food, Mrs. Barnes’ kindness not enough to overcome it -- and he _knows_ he’s going to feel like absolute garbage in the morning. But, right now, it’s nice. His body feels so pliable and his chest feels open and instead of being surrounded by shadows and echoes he’s getting filled up with all of the hubbub of the the bar.

When he’s nearing the end of his glass there’s a lull in the activity at the counter and the bartender makes himself comfortable near Steve. “I’m real sorry to hear about your mam, kid,” he says.

Steve nods his thanks and keeps his eyes on the rim of his glass. He’s had enough of condolences. He’s got a fridge so full of condolences he won’t have to cook for a month.

Steve thinks, fleetingly, that the money they’d all spent on flowers and food -- cash that they’d pressed into his hands and tucked into sympathy notes -- would have been better used getting his mother into a ward instead of letting her waste away at home. Someone coughs at the back of the room and it sounds just like Sarah had the day her lung collapsed. 

Condolences are worthless to him. They’ll be ash on his tongue or rent in his landlady’s pocket. 

“Oh! Before I forget, I got somethin' fer ya.” The bartender ducks out from behind the counter and disappears behind the door to the cellar. 

There’s an office down there, Steve knows. He’s been down there, having his nose looked at or his arm stitched up after some fight or another in the alley. It’s cold in the office, he remembers. He’d focused on his teeth chattering instead of the burn of the vodka the bartender’s wife splashed onto him or the stab of the needle as she pulled it through. They’d yanked him inside and patched him up while the others were arrested. 

The officers’ shoes crunched over the broken bits of glass right next to the cellar window and Steve had laughed and taken a drink right from the bottle of Smirnoff. The bartender’s wife had clucked her tongue and said something in breathy Polish that he didn’t need to understand to know she was scolding him for being so smug.

They’re an odd pair, Steve thinks, not even sure how they met. But they work.

“Kat found it on the floor last time you were here with the Barnes kid. Kept meanin’ to bring it by your place and just never found the time,” the bartender explains when he returns and places a book down in front of Steve.

 _The ABC Murders_ by Agatha Christie, the corners of the book worn down and the spine cracked. Sarah was a big fan of Poirot. The book had come out right about the time she’d been committed to bed rest. It wasn’t a terribly long book, but they’d been reading it together whenever she’d had the energy for it, which wasn’t very much or very often. And anyway, she’d been in the middle of _Death in the Clouds_ to start with so they’d had to finish that one first.

Steve holds the book in his hands and blinks real fast, trying to hold the stinging tears he feels at bay. He’d turned the apartment upside-down looking for the damned thing. He’d wanted to finish reading the last chapter to her that morning at the cemetery. It’s as good a time as ever, he thinks, draining his glass.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice a harsh rasp.

“Don’t mention it.”

The bartender clears the glass and Steve fishes in his pocket. He can’t focus on the coins he drops onto the counter to see if they’re enough. The bartender pushes them back toward him, shaking his head.

“On the house, kid, yer bereaved.”

Steve doesn’t want the charity but he accepts it all the same. It’s easier than arguing, he’s realized the last few days. He lets the people around him do things for him and it makes them feel less awkward about the grey cloud that hangs over him.

He dumps the handful of coins back in his pocket and produces his packet of _Page’s_ instead.

“Do you mind?” he asks, conscious of the herby smell of the cigarettes. They’ll cut through the tobacco haze. The bartender shakes his head and tells him to go ahead, even offers him a match to light it with. He takes a deep drag and exhales as politely as he can while he cracks the book open where a faded receipt marks his place.

The final arc of the story is a quick read. It ends with the admission of a bluff -- the evidence wasn’t real, just a ruse to lure the criminal out and an effective one. Steve stares at the blank surface of the inside cover when he turns over the last pages. He feels like something more has ended than just a campy mystery story.

He realizes, perhaps for the first time that day, that he’s on his own.

Bucky and Becca and their parents are there, sure. And they’re all just as good as his own blood family, absolutely. But he can’t help but feel, at eighteen, alone and unmoored. 

Finishing high school had been hard through the first months of his mother’s illness. He hadn’t told her that he’d withdrawn from his spot at the _League of New York._ Steve isn’t even truly sure she noticed him home all the time instead of off at class. He couldn’t handle the long hours bent over an easel _and_ caring for her -- and he wouldn’t ever have chosen different! 

But now what was he to do?

There would be work, obviously. He’d need to work. He wonders if the grocer will let him come back, or if perhaps they’d filled his spot to their satisfaction. The older ladies were always talking about how nicely he packed their bags, surely that would be a point in his favor.

He could perhaps try to have a meeting at the League. Maybe they’d let him start after the Fall term? He could use the time to practice. He’s already got the books from the reading lists they’d prescribed -- and Bucky and Becca had gotten him that real nice portfolio when he’d been accepted. It shouldn’t go to waste.

Steve closes the book and covers it with both hands. A rush of shame makes him feel hot all over. Sweat prickles on his scalp. He nods when the bartender asks if he wants another drink and doesn’t object to the second helping of whiskey he’s offered.

“When my mam died,” the bartender starts, “I couldn’t be with ‘er. Father Flood let me use the phone in his office to talk to ‘er one last time, say my goodbyes.”

Steve doesn’t want to hear this. Politely listening to everyone’s tales of personal grief and sympathy have left him exhausted. He takes a mousy sip from his glass and nods along.

“I felt like shite for it. Like I’d abandoned her or something.” He reaches out and pats Steve’s hand resting on the book. “You’re a good kid, Rogers.”

“Thanks,” Steve mumbles, not sure how else to answer.

It’s been a constant, this flow of vaguely related tales of dead parents and strife. He knows that they’re only trying to help, to show him that they have also shouldered grief -- that they survived, they moved forward, it’s not the end of the world -- they hurt and they still hurt. _He gets it_. He wishes it would stop.

Steve has to bite his tongue, figuratively and perhaps a bit literally as well. The beer and the whiskey and the cigarette he takes polite puffs on have filled him with a swarm of confused bees and all his insides are empty honeycomb. He stubs out the cigarette in the half-full dish at his seat-neighbor’s elbow and slides the un-smoked half back into the pack.

He should go home, he thinks. Drink-soft as everything has become, maybe if he lays down he’ll just fall asleep. It would be nice, he thinks, even if it’s only a few hours.

If he could make his legs move toward the door, it would be a nice start.

Steve shifts, realizing someone is trying to slide onto the open stool beside him. He straightens up to give them space and takes another sip from his glass. He’s not trying to make it last, it just makes him feel like he has a purpose: to sit and drink; to perform the function of lifting the glass to his lips, swallowing, and setting the glass back down.

“Excuse me,” his new neighbor murmurs, bumping his shoulder. 

“No problem,” Steve says, swirling the last sip of whiskey in his glass.

“Sir, I will have a flagon of your _finest_ ale.”

The bartender looks at the newcomer and then looks at Steve, his unruly eyebrows coming together in an exasperated sort of crinkle. “You’ll have a pint of Guinness,” he says and the gentleman beside Steve hardly looks phased by the tone he’s offered.

“Mm,” he makes a sound of distinct satisfaction when he sips. “ _That_ is excellent.”

Steve nods along with him. “Guinness a day is good for you.”

“Is it, really?” 

The guy is no Joe. He’s dressed to the nines in a suit that looks like it cost Steve’s earnings for the year and maybe then some. He doesn’t look like he belongs in South Brooklyn and certainly not in spitting distance of a Hooverville. Definitely doesn’t sound it, either. The Heights, maybe, Steve thinks. It’s not completely unusual someone finds their way down for a diversion, a little taste of the local flavor or a little taste of the locals. He’s never seen anybody advertise it so flagrantly, though.

Steve nods toward the advertisement on the wall with the assertion and a collection of drinks with smiling foam faces. The guy laughs and declares it a delight and takes a very long drink from his glass.

“New in town?” the bartender asks, wary.

“Ah, just passing through. A visit. A pit-stop, really. I’m touring the realm.” 

The guy grins and when he turns toward Steve it’s like he’s been sliced right open with some grande-dame’s good silver. He can’t breathe for a moment and he thinks, yes, this is exactly the chain of events that feels appropriate for the day. He sways on his stool and his head swims and everything snaps back into focus very abruptly when a long, pale hand covers his own.

“A book at the tavern? A man after my own heart, you are.”

The guy moves Steve’s hand and makes to grab his Agatha Christie. Steve puts his hand more firmly on the cover, pressing the paperback into the polished counter. The guy smirks.

“You’re local, then? Midgardian, obviously, but from _here_.”

“Yeah,” Steve answers, a little gruff, a little confused. “Something you need, pal?”

The guy’s face lights up and Steve thinks he might be a little more in his cups than he thought because it’s like his eyes _glow_ with it.

“A tour guide, perhaps,” he says and holds out his hand, waiting for Steve to take it. “Loki, Odinson.”

Loki Odinson’s hand is cool and smooth to the touch -- someone who hasn’t worked a day in their life. Steve shakes it anyway, once, and pulls his hand back.

“Grant,” Steve answers and picks his glass back up to swallow the last of the whiskey.

He should go home. _This_ is the Heavens or the universe or the Holy Ghost itself telling him to get the _hell_ out of here and just play it right. Sit at home, eat a spoonful of one of the condolence casseroles, go to bed. He’s pretty sure one of them was shepherd’s pie -- that won’t be too bad cold. Certainly wouldn’t be as bad as giving some uptown dandy a poverty tour for kicks.

Steve excuses himself to the washroom and the bartender takes his book and places it below the counter for one last few minutes of safe-keeping. He stumbles into the washroom and takes a wicked piss, laughing to himself that he might fall right over before he’s done.

He really is drunker than he thought -- must be because he’s gotten up and moved around, circulation sent the booze straight to his head.

He puts himself back together and can’t help but stare at the cloudy mirror over the sink. He doesn’t look like himself. Doesn’t feel like himself, either, but he already knew that. He _should_ go home, genuinely. Not just to get away from his new friend at the counter. He splashes some water from the sink on his face and feels just fractions better.

Back out at the counter he’s offered coffee, then a car ride. He declines, it’s only a few blocks, he insists. He’ll be _fine_ , he insists. It’ll do him good to walk it off, he insists. He takes his book back from the bartender and holds it between his knees while he’s getting his jacket down from the peg near the door and slipping it on. 

He looks over his shoulder, the weight of the feeling of being watched pressing down on him and ready to tell _Mr. Odinson_ to buzz off. Steve frowns, his agitation left unsatisfied when he sees its object engaged with someone else, laughing right into the glass of dark beer in his hands.

Steve makes his slow way back home. The sun is well on its way to setting and the light sneaking between the buildings is blinding when he has to walk into it. The stairs up to his place seem insurmountable but he drags himself upward all the same.

“Steven! Is that you?” he hears shouted from below.

“Yes, Mrs. Lacey -- sorry to bother you.” The stairs are creaky. It’s impossible to sneak past without alerting his landlady’s attention. She’s nice enough, means well. The prospect of stopping to have another person tell him how sorry they are is tiring all the same.

“No bother at all, dear! Can I bring you up a plate?”

“No, Mrs. Lacey, I’m fine. Thank you!”

“Oh, you really should let me!” She’s talking loudly instead of shouting, now, stepping outside and standing back so she can see him on the stairs. “Skin and bones you are, Steven, you’ve got to start taking care of yourself again! Sarah’d be so heartsick to see --”

“I’m _fine_ , Mrs. Lacey, really.” He sways a little, dizzy from the distance to the ground.

She frowns up at him and crosses her arms. “You’ll let me know if you need something, then?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She scoffs, not totally satisfied with his answer, but retreats back inside.

The apartment is just as much the yawning, endless chamber of echoes it was before Steve left. 

He shuffles toward the kitchen, dropping his keys on the little card table as he passes it. He opens the fridge and stands in front of the chilly rectangle, all stacked to capacity with dishes -- even something crammed into the tiny icebox, the ice tray itself abandoned in the sink. The silent motor on top _whirrs_ and Steve can feel the gentle vibration of it with his hand on the door.

There’s too much, too many choices. He wishes his mother were there to make the decision for him, to pop some anonymous dish into the oven and pull out something good smelling and filling.

Steve shakes his head and slams the door of the fridge shut, the inside latch clacking loudly at the impact. He crosses the room to the couch and collapses onto it, jacket and shoes and all.

He can hear Mrs. Lacey’s Victrola through the floor, just loud enough to cut through the silence but not enough to hold his attention. He is _just_ sloshed enough that he drifts to sleep in spite of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG IT'S HISTORICAL NOTES TIME I HAVEN'T DONE THIS IN FOREVER. This one isn't going to be heavy on the comic history, just some fun trivia LETS GOOO.
> 
> This story takes place in October '36 which is the best estimate for when Sarah died considering the absolutely wild inconsistency that the MCU and all the tie-in properties have given us, especially with regard to Steve's pre-'43 life. Jesus Christ, Marvel Studios, TFA came out in '11 can we please have some definitive clarity. These aren't comics.
> 
> Prohibition ended in Dec '33. Previously, in NY the drinking age was 18. Initially, it was reinstated at 21 and within a few months was adjusted to 18 again (then the '80s happened and we're just not going to touch that). Steve is 18 at the time of this story.
> 
> Fridges with iceboxes that operated on freon were common (and the production standard) in the '30s. General Electric produced a top compressor model that was nearly silent and incredibly energy efficient, MUCH more than today. There are examples of these that are still fully functional. They opened with foot pedals with a latch inside rather than handles and seals and while this is a great accessibility feature, they are now illegal to produce because of the incidence of children becoming trapped inside and suffocating re: Refrigerator Safety Act '56.
> 
> Vodka wasn't really popular in the US until well after the time of this story. The Smirnoff brand was ridiculously unprofitable and was bankrupt by '38, only selling maybe a few thousand cases to Russian/Polish communities in the CT area in 4yrs of operation. In the '50s, with some effort, the Moscow Mule became popular and sales boosted.
> 
> "Asthma cigarettes" were a thing! They weren't like regular tobacco cigarettes and had active ingredients that were meant to assist with bronchial symptoms. (If my more recent references are correct, the active ingredient is similar to one that is in modern inhalers and you were supposed to in/exhale similarly to the way an inhaler is used.) It seems counter-intuitive but was apparently effective. They could be used up to 4X daily.
> 
> Art Students League of NY is an independent art school in Manhattan founded in 1875 with a long list of notable staff and alumni.
> 
> Yes, I absolutely lifted some character refs/names from _Brooklyn_.
> 
> "Hoovervilles" were homeless encampments/towns that popped up during the Depression, so-called because Herbert Hoover was widely blamed for the economic collapse.
> 
> We shall return with more facts in our next episode. Until then, [find me here yaaaay!](https://aryagreenleaf.carrd.co/)


	2. Chapter 2

Steve wakes with the worst headache he’s ever experienced. He feels like he’s an egg left on the sidewalk in the summertime, completely fried and dried. Squinting and dizzy, he stumbles into the kitchen to stick his face under the faucet and sucks water down until his stomach hurts.

He sinks down against the cabinet, legs splayed out like some forlorn ragdoll. His mouth tastes awful. He can smell his own sweat. He laughs, throat rough, thinking of what he must actually look like.

Someone knocking on the door startles him and the sound is like a train driving right through his skull.

“Child, you open this door now, I can hear you walking around!” Mrs. Lacey half-shouts through the wooden panel. “I’ve got coffee and a plate fixed for you right here, now come out and get it -- I won’t be goin’ ‘way until you do.”

Steve crawls to the card table and uses the chair to hoist his body up into some passing semblance of a standing position. He drags himself to the door and fumbles trying to open it. He accepts the mug and dish of glossy fried eggs and a hunk of soft, crusty bread. He thinks there might be real butter melted into it and the sweet smell of it brings confusing tears to his eyes.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he croaks.

Mrs. Lacey looks him up and down, a critical scrunch to her face. She reaches out to smooth the rumpled front of his jacket. “You’re not going out like this, are you?”

“No, Mrs. Lacey, I never got changed yesterday. Didn’t feel like it.” 

The filter between his brain and his mouth has got more holes in it than Steve would like. Mrs. Lacey pats his cheek like she’s his grandmother, although he doesn’t think she’s more than ten years older than his mother was. She tells him he’s such a _poor dear boy_ and that should he need anything he should shout downstairs, even if it’s just popping something into the oven for him. Steve would like her to just leave. He’s grateful for the food and for the kindness but he just wants everyone to _stop_.

“I’ll be sure to do that, Mrs. Lacey, thank you.”

She seems to catch his drift when he takes a half step back away from the door and nods and turns on the landing and marches herself back down the stairs in her typical, steady stride.

Steve eats, wolfing down the eggs and bread. He doesn’t realize how hungry he is until the first bite hits his tongue, savory and solid. The butter coats his tongue and his teeth in a delicious fatty film and the bite of the acid in the muddy black coffee cuts through the fog in his head.

He has to remember to thank Mrs. Lacey more earnestly, he thinks as he drags the warm heel of bread across the plate, unwilling to forego a single crumb. 

He knows he’ll regret it but now that he’s started eating, he feels like a bottomless pit. Standing in front of the open fridge, he pulls out one of the covered dishes and eats what he’s pretty sure is a roll of cabbage filled with meat. He licks cold red sauce off his fingers and picks up a second roll and takes a single bite and puts it back down. His stomach lurches and the room spins. He manages not to spill his guts, which he considers an accomplishment. It’s not the food, it’s him.

He’s gotta take care of himself, he knows this. Braced over the sink, taking deep breaths and staring at his distorted reflection in the faucet’s head, he tries to make an itemized list.

First, he thinks, he needs to wash -- to rid himself of the stink of booze and sweat, to wash off everyone else’s tears and touches and the scent of the overturned earth at the cemetery that he knows isn’t really there but his addled brain is holding onto. He should take a bath and brush his teeth, put some fresh clothes on. 

After that, he thinks, a walk will be nice. He can get some fresh air, maybe sit down by the pier and feed the gulls. He likes to make sure there’s lots of seed and crumbles of stale bread near the manager’s office. The guy deserves it and Steve doesn’t feel the need to explain himself.

He can’t think beyond that but it feels like a long enough list for the moment.

Steve hesitates in the cramped little nook of a hall, the bedroom to his left and the tiny bathroom to the right. The window over the bed is still open, the curtains blowing in with the breeze. The bed is empty but it doesn’t really feel like it, not with the dent in the mattress and the greyish outline in the pillowcase that, try as he might -- beating the damn thing on the clothes tree in the alley until he thought he was going to fall over -- he couldn’t manage to wash out.

Steve leans over the threshold of the room, careful to keep his toes in the hall, and grabs the knob to pull the door closed.

It doesn’t take long for the small tub to fill and while it does he brushes his teeth and runs his razor over the blonde down on his lip. He washes very methodically when he’s finally in the bath, lathering the bright, white bar of soap and scrubbing at his scalp first and then tipping a pitcher over his head until his hair squeaks when he runs his fingers through it.

The water is good and cloudy when he’s satisfied that all he can smell is the Ivory bar and he sits for a long moment, watching it float in front of him. 

The water has started to get uncomfortable, the soapy suds on the surface looking more like the foam on the top of a soup pot as they grow cold.

Steve barks out a laugh that echoes off the floor tile, belatedly glad they’d moved into this place with it’s plumbed water and the heated pipes when Sarah took the job that would kill her. It was an oddity in the neighborhood and by far in most of Brooklyn -- even Bucky had to heat his bath water on the stove.

Steve dries himself off with a thin towel while the tub drains, wondering what mysterious intervention had brought Sarah and Mrs. Lacey together when the apartment was available for letting. He supposes, one day, he might ask.

He doesn’t need to venture into the bedroom, his own trunk in the living space saving him the need. It feels nice to pull on fresh clothes and the closeness of his knitted vest is the least imposing embrace he’s had in days. It is, he thinks as he looks at himself in the speckled mirror on the wall, perhaps just slightly too small. He shrugs, nothing to be done about it. He doesn’t think it looks terrible -- maybe even, he sincerely wonders, makes him look a little better. Less like his clothing is actively swallowing him whole.

Steve brings his clean dishes back down to Mrs. Lacey, thanks her sincerely, and excuses himself as quickly as he can.

He wanders, feeling utterly aimless. He loops through one end of the neighborhood and back again and heads off away from the residential block. There are hardly any cars and the street is inviting, a respite from the obstacles of playing children and front stoops overflowing with social neighbors and the tumble of fruit or flowers outside of the smaller shops tucked beneath the cramped apartments above. The sharp whine of a car horn aggravates the low ache in his head and he steps aside, conscious of the vehicle slowing to a crawl beside him.

“Hey, Steve!”

Bucky’s sister hangs out of the window of a car that is definitely not the one her family owns. Quite literally, at that, half of her body outside. Some boy is behind the wheel, his attention alternating between Steve and the empty street ahead -- one hand on the wheel and the other on Rebecca’s backside, holding onto her dress. Becca spreads her arms like she’s flying and laughs when the boy at the wheel yanks her down into the seat.

“Rory and I are heading home for dinner, you wanna come?”

Steve shakes his head, still walking, the car still rolling along beside him in the road. He wonders how long Rory will keep it up. “Headed uptown for a job interview, Bec, give Winnie a kiss for me, though.”

“Oh! We can take you!” She gestures toward the back seat. “Hop in! Rory, we can drive Steve, right?” Rory shrugs and eases the car to a stop, waiting.

“I’m okay, really. I wanna clear my head a little.” Steve’s stomach clenches. He hates to lie when it's not necessary, _especially_ to any of the Barneses.

“Will you come after? I’m sure Ma will want to hear about it! And you can give her a kiss yourself, then. You’re her favorite child, anyway, she’ll be furious we saw you walking and didn’t scoop you up.”

Becca cringes as if suddenly aware of the last seventy-two hours preceding this light-hearted, chance meeting.

The Barnes family had been gracious enough to host the funeral at their home. Steve had stayed over, too, of course, sleeping cramped alongside Bucky in his narrow bed while his mom rested downstairs in the living room, the couch pushed aside to make room for her. 

Steve and Winnie had bathed and clothed Sarah Rogers. George, Bucky’s father, had helped them situate her in the very simple coffin that the cabinetmaker delivered to their little apartment and had made the arrangements with a car to get her first to his home and then to Holy Cross when all was said and done. 

Becca had volunteered her own compact of rouge after someone had commented how drawn Sarah looked. _She’s dead, you fucking egg,_ he’d wanted to say. But in a lull between visitors Becca swooped in and suddenly everything was fine. She’s the silliest seventeen year old in the neighborhood by all accounts, but Steve thought maybe people who said that just didn’t know her.

All of it seemed very far away under the sun of a new day. The memory felt surreal and vague even though it was only a day old.

“I’m not sure, Bec.” She frowns and Steve hates her for just a second for the concern on her brow. “Tell you what, I’ll come over tomorrow and I’ll bring one of those casseroles everyone dropped off. I can’t possibly eat them all myself and then no one has to cook.”

She keeps on frowning for a moment but nods and tells him good luck with his interview. Steve watches the car go, staying put until it’s too far to double back on a whim.

Steve makes his way back to the bar. His feet take him there on autopilot. He doesn’t know why he ends up there again, he doesn’t have any desire to drink -- not after how he felt when he woke up. The place is pleasantly busy, noisy and crowded but not too much.

“Oi,” the bartender greets when he sits at the counter. “We’re not makin’ this a habit, Rogers.”

Steve shakes his head and cranes his neck to see over the bartender’s shoulder, jerking his chin toward the shiny silver coffee pot on the counter behind. “Is that still hot?”

“Didn’t make it but five minutes ago.” He sets a cup down in front of Steve and pours from the pot and Steve can tell by the scent of it that it’s the kind of mud that threatens to put hair on your chest.

Steve enjoys the warm cup between his palms and the comfortable non-solitude of sitting in the middle of a crowded room. “Say, Jim?”

“Mm?” The bartender pauses with his cloth inside of a glass.

“Do you think I could set up outside again? For old time’s sake.”

“I don’t see why not. ‘Specially if we’re attracting fine folk like Mr. Odinson. Plenty of nice shoes to polish walking through the door.” Jim rolls his eyes and resumes his cleaning.

“What was that guy’s deal?” Steve laughs.

“Heaven knows, kid. Wouldn’t mind if he came back though with the tip ‘e left, paid for damn well near a whole case.” 

Steve whistles, eyebrows raised. 

“If he’s some kind of grifter, I don’t wanna know it.” Jim laughs and stashes the dry, polished glass, picking up the next.

“Can’t blame you, pal.” 

They discuss Steve’s hours of operation and settle on a commission for the space over another cup of coffee. 

It’s this way that Steve finds himself in the passenger’s seat of the Barneses’ car with Bucky insisting that he can find Steve something better at the dock, maybe something in the office?

Steve made good on his promise of dinner and the following afternoon Bucky insisted on driving Steve over so he wouldn’t have to lug the shine box all the way over on foot. It’s not heavy, Steve insists, just awkward, but Bucky won’t take _no_ for an answer.

“I appreciate it, Buck, I do. But I really want to try to get the League to take me before the semester’s over -- I can’t commit to an office job and be free for classes. I just need pocket money right now, anyway. Ma had insurance and she’d saved a little bit of dad’s for me. I’m fine.”

“But you don’t _have_ to be fine, pal, that’s the point! You can stay over with us or I can stay over with you. We can take care of you, Steve, you’re family. You don’t have to rush off and try to be normal again so fast. Your ma’s --”

“But I _want_ to be normal again, Buck.” He barely gets it out in a whisper. It feels like he’s admitting to a criminal offense. “I’ve just wanted to be normal again for so long.”

They’ve been sitting in the car with the engine running, bickering back and forth while people on the sidewalk go about their business. Steve looks furtively at the street beyond the windshield, embarrassed and annoyed and embarrassed that he’s annoyed.

“Fine,” Bucky mutters. “I got the overnight, I won’t be able to drive you home.”

“It’s alright,” Steve mumbles. “I’ll manage.”

“Do you need help with that?” Bucky asks, even as Steve is shoving himself and his shoeshine box out of the car. “I guess not,” he snipes as Steve shuts the door. Bucky sticks his head out the window and watches while Steve lugs the box into the alley way. “You can still spend the night, you know! Even if you’re determined to be the biggest fuckin’ punk you can manage.”

Steve flips him a casual bird and Bucky barks out a laugh. Everything between them is fine and the engine of the car turning over sends him on his way.

The day has been warm, the last bit of summer still clinging to the city. Steve is more than comfortable perched on the stool from the bar, reading the paper while he waits for a taker on the shine. It feels comfortable and familiar and the first half-drunk fellow that requests his services pays him far too much. He’s celebrating his first son and he’s spreading the wealth around, he explains, and Steve doesn’t see a reason to contradict him or refuse.

“Boyo!” a familiar voice calls from the mouth of the alley. It’s an old regular, emphasis on the old. The gentleman makes his slow way toward the bar and waves Steve off the stool so that he can sit. “I wanna see my face in them toes.”

Steve settles himself on the ground, his knee resting on his folded-up newspaper, and gets the first foot situated on the box. They chat, catching up on a year of lost time, and the man extends his legs out in front of him to appraise the job when Steve is done.

“These things haven’t looked this nice since the last time you shined ‘em up.”

“Impossible, Declan, I’m sure there’s someone else in the neighborhood. Always someone on some corner.” Steve grins and helps the man down from the stool and holds the door of the bar open for him.

“It’s _true_ no one else takes as much care and goodness knows my wains are useless.” He steps inside and spots someone sitting at a table. “Would ya look’a that, one of ‘em sitting there just now.”

Steve laughs and waves at Declan’s son, who shakes his head and rolls his eyes amiably. 

Steve gasps, startled to turn and see someone new sitting on his stool. The dandy from the other day is grinning up at him, his foot already on the shine box. He’s in another suit that looks just as rich as the one before and his cheeks are flushed like he’s been out for a hard walk.

“This is a great novelty,” he murmurs as Steve situates himself on the ground again and tucks the shoelaces out of the way then picks up his brush to dust off Odinson’s shoes. They very much don’t need a shine. They’re well conditioned and soft and don’t have a single scuff on them. But, Steve isn’t going to argue with a paying customer. “I’ve never seen anyone do this before.”

“Shine shoes?” Steve looks up at him, a little incredulous.

“No! The household staff are very discrete. I could be out riding in the wood for days straight and upon waking in my own bed -- poof!” 

He gestures to make his point and there is a flash of gold and jewel as he moves his hands. This guy really wants to get jumped, Steve thinks to himself, flaunting his wears like that. It’s not like the neighborhood is full of ruthless thugs but _geeze_ , be a little self-aware.

Steve takes his time, milking it and hoping the theatrics might get him a tip on top of his fee. Odinson watches him intently from above. Steve asks if he can cuff the hem of his pant leg and Odinson nods. Steve finishes brushing off the shoe and sets to work with the little tin of conditioner and a soft cloth wrapped carefully around his index and middle fingers. 

Delicately, he wraps one hand around Odinson’s very slender ankle to angle the shoe how he needs it. The sock he’s wearing feels buttery soft and smooth and when Steve looks up Odinson is practically doubled over, watching. His cheeks are still flushed, even though he’s at his leisure. He sits back again when Steve starts with the polish, long fingers tented half under his chin and tapping against his lips. His eyes grow wide, apparently amused, when Steve flashes the polishing cloth back and forth against the toe of the shoe.

Steve untucks the laces and flattens them out. He uncuffs the pant and tugs it gently straight. Odinson’s gaze is like a sack of potatoes across his shoulders.

“Next?” Steve prompts.

“Hm?”

“The other foot.” He pats the side of the box.

“Oh! Of course!” Odinson gasps and switches his feet, nodding in assent when Steve moves the laces and cuffs the other leg. “Astonishing,” he breathes when all is said and done. He stands and walks toward the pool of light toward the back of the alley, where there’s space between the buildings. “Simply astonishing.”

Steve stows his supplies and gets up from the ground with a bit of a creak. He sets the folded paper he’s been resting his knee on on the stool and watches his satisfied customer. Odinson turns and looks and turns again, admiring his own feet. Steve clears his throat in a way he hopes comes off as unobtrusive and when Odinson twists to look at him he looks down at the box and the _15c_ painted on the side.

“Oh! Of course, of course,” he repeats. 

He shoves his hand into his pocket and produces a few crumpled bills. He presses one into Steve’s palm and Steve starts to tell him that he just needs a moment to get change from Jim inside and chokes. He’s not sure he’s ever actually held a twenty in his hands. He’s seen them, of course, in the safe at the grocer when he worked there.

“Mr. Odinson.”

“Loki.”

“ _Loki_ , I don’t think Jim can break a twenty.”

“Why would it need to be broken? Your sign says fifteen, I don’t need the difference.”

“ _Cents_ ,” Steve argues. “Fifteen _cents_. This is that times -- like, two hundred!” He knows the math isn’t right but apparently Loki can’t to basic addition and subtraction, either.

Loki shrugs and ducks toward the door of the bar. “More than worth it, I think.”

A lunatic. He’s dealing with a lunatic, Steve thinks to himself. All the same, he looks around and sits on the stool, taking off his own shoe. He folds the bill up and shoves it down into his sock, right under his sole, and replaces the shoe.

“Rogers!” Steve looks up at someone coming out of the bar. “I got a hot date tonight and I’m already late. I’ll give you a quarter if you can shine me up double-time.”

Steve shoots up off the stool and waves the guy over. “Uh, yeah -- _yeah_. Sure.”

“You okay, kid? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Steve laughs and the sound is high and reedy in his chest. “I’m fine,” he nods and starts brushing as fast as he can. “Perfectly fine.”

He can feel the edges of the bill against his skin. Maybe, he thinks, he should close up shop for the day and get home before Loki Odinson decides to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyy, notes notes notes!
> 
> Steve has a nibble on some gwumpki. It’s a Polish dish consisting of cabbage wrapped around meat and rice, usually covered in a tomato sauce (no, not like what you’d put on pasta).
> 
> Water heaters and boilers weren’t super common at the time but not everyone was taking baths in metal tubs in the kitchen. We’re going to assume that Mrs. Lacey or whomever owned the building was very progressive for the sake of my not having to reimagine the shape of Steve’s apartment.
> 
> Home funerals, not funeral homes, were the norm for the time. The local furniture maker would likely be who you called to make the casket and they would deliver it to the house where the family was bathing and dressing their loved one for the wake, which took place in the common living space. If an extended period of time was necessary, cooling systems with ice were used. The family would then also arrange transport and burial. Modern funerals are a capitalist nightmare. Don’t let them tell you what you can and can’t do, look up the laws in your own state.
> 
> Yup, life insurance was a thing.
> 
> Loki has just handed Steve the equivalent of like $350 in buying power, something like a decent chunk of a year of rent for the time.
> 
> [Find me here.](https://aryagreenleaf.carrd.co/)


End file.
